


As Natural As Breathing

by Scribomaniac



Category: Black Sails
Genre: 5 Times, 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - High School, Canon Disabled Character, Foster Care, High School, John Silver is a Little Shit, M/M, lying, silverflint
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2017-06-01
Packaged: 2018-10-31 13:41:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10900515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scribomaniac/pseuds/Scribomaniac
Summary: 5 times John lies about how he lost his leg and the 1 time he doesn't.





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> Silver POV

For most seventeen year old's, senior year was the be all, end all of teenage life. It was the end of many an era for the normal high school student. Most students knew where they'd be going to college the next year, or what career path they intended to pursue. Trivial matters like classes and grades took a back seat so students could focus on more important matters, such as friendships, relationships, parties, and, of course, drama. The year would be long, and would most likely drag, but most students looked forward to the first day of school with a jittery hum of excitement coursing through all their veins. For the students of Nassau High, that was exactly the case. The campus was swarming with all sorts of teenagers happily reconnecting with their friends in varying levels of pitch and squeals, groups hugs and fist bumps. Almost everyone was happy to be back at school. Everyone except for the new kid in town: John Silver.

John Silver frowned, barely holding back a grimace, as he made his way through the crowded halls towards his new locker. He was used to being new. The new kid in the neighborhood. The new student in school. The new freak to point and jeer at. It came with the territory of being a foster kid, after all. Especially one with only half a leg. He'd lost the lower half of his left leg several years ago, when he was only thirteen, back when he'd been in his first foster home. Now, at age seventeen, and on his second foster home, he'd grown used to the looks, the questions, the fake concern, but that didn't mean he didn't like it any less; and while everyone around him was enjoying their first day of school, and the seniors counting down the days until they were free, he was counting down the days until he ages out of the system. So, after side stepping a group of what looked like freshman girls, he grit his teeth and reminded himself that this was the last time. This was his last new foster home, his last new foster parents, and his last new school.

Finding his locker and opening it, John stored away several textbooks and his lunch, leaving only a few notebooks, some pens and pencils remaining in his back pack. Closing his eyes, he took a long, deep breath to settle his nerves and closed the locker door with a satisfying slam. John stretched his neck this way and that, then reached up to pull his dark, curly hair into a small bun. The late August heat in the town of New Providence was almost unbearable, and John could feel the small drips of sweat making their way down the back of his neck and into the collar of his shirt. He hoped the school's air conditioning system worked better in the classrooms than it did in the hallways. If it wasn't, John feared for his nose.

The locker next to him opened quickly, with a sharp creak. A boy with a shaved head and the beginnings of a spotty beard stood next to him. John wasn't sure how, but somehow the boy's locker was already overflowing with scraps of paper and several other bits of junk. “Shit,” the boy muttered as an avalanche of paper and notebooks fell out of the locker and onto the floor. John blinked several times before kneeling down stiffly to help him clean everything up. Brown eyes flickered up to him and the boy mumbled, “Thanks, man.”

“No problem,” John shrugged, handing him the last of his papers. Bracing himself on his good leg, John stood back up and adjusted his backpack straps on his shoulders.

“Hey, you're new, aren't you?” The boy asked, shutting his locker but keeping his eyes on John. “I'm Batholomew Muldoon,” he extended his hand and John took it. Bashfully, the boy shrugged, “But everyone just calls me Muldoon.”

“John—John Silver,” John gave Muldoon's hand a solid shake before letting go. Smiling charismatically, he added, “And you can call me whatever you'd like.”

Huffing out a laugh, Muldoon nodded, “Well all right then. What's your first class, Silver?”

Brows furrowing, John bit down on his lower lip and hummed to himself while he rummaged through his back pack for his class schedule. “Spanish with Mr. Raja,” he read, his words ending in a questioning tilt.

“Same here!” Muldoon exclaimed happily. He grabbed his back pack from off the ground and started walking down the hallway. He waved for John to follow, “I should warn you, though. Raja's a hard ass. I mean, you'll learn a lot since Spanish is actually his first language, but you do not want to piss the guy off, believe me. Oh, and never be late with him. He considers it, like, sacrilege or something.” Muldoon frowned, noticing John's slower gait and uneven steps and looked down to see what the trouble was. At the sight of his prosthetic, Muldoon's brows shot up and his jaw dropped ever so slightly, making his mouth look like a small 'O'. John quirked a brow, just waiting for the questions to start flooding from the boy's mouth, but Muldoon never asked them. Instead, he snapped his jaw shut, slowed his pace and continued on like nothing had changed. Clearing his throat, he asked, “So what's the rest of your schedule like?”

Looking back down at the schedule still clutched in his hand, John told him, “Second period, Calc with Hornigold, third, Anatomy with Mapleton, fourth, Econ with Guthrie, then lunch, fifth is Gym with Gates, sixth, art with Pretorius and seventh, English with Hennessey.”

Muldoon whistled low, “That's one hell of a schedule—lots of A.P teachers on that list of yours. What are you, some kind of genius?”

John barked out a laugh, “Hardly,” he said. Truth was, John was an average student. There was nothing spectacular in his educational history to support his placement in these advanced classes, but, after years and years of shuffling around, he'd learned a trick or two to beat the system that was standardized testing. Never one to show his hand, though, he merely said, “I just test well.”

“Lucky bastard,” Muldoon said with a cheeky grin. “Raja's room is this way,” he jerked his head to a classroom to his left and led them to a pair of desks in the back of the room. “Thinking about joining any sports?” He asked after they settled in to their seats. John pulled out a notebook and a pen and leaned back, glad that Muldoon had chosen seats in the very back where his prosthetic would be blocked from view. He knew eventually someone would ask him—the fact that Muldoon wasn't the first was a pleasant surprise—but why run to that bridge when he could easily walk? “I'm on the swim team, myself,” Muldoon continued, rummaging through his own backpack for a pen, John guessed. “We have open swims every Wednesday to get in shape for season if you're interested in checking it out.”

John eyed Muldoon's shaved head. That was not a look he thought he could pull off, so with an easy smile and short laugh, he said, “Nah, I'm not any good at swimming—barely know how to float, really.”

“Ah,” Muldoon nodded, “Oh well—what sports are you into, then?” He finally found his pen and smirked proudly at it before heading back into his backpack for something else.

John shifted his left leg self consciously. He knew there were plenty disabled people who excelled at sports. He just wasn't one of them. He never took a strong interest in any sport, and it wasn't like any of his foster parents ever took an interest in his extra curriculars. “Not really a sports guy, I guess.”

The teacher, Raja, walked into the room, shutting the door behind him before walking to his desk. The bell rang, and a moment later a dozen students filed in. “You are all late,” Raja said, his words clipped. “Since it is the first day, I will forgive it, but never again. Now, how many of you retained any Spanish over the summer, hmm?” Only three people raised their hands. Spanish was actually one of the subjects John was good at—one of the few. He was much better speaking it, though, than he was at writing it. That being said, however, he was not one of the students to raise his hands. That would lead to unwanted attention. _Extra_ unwanted attention in John's case. “So none of you,” Raja said. “Very well,” he opened a drawer in his desk and placed a stack of work books atop it. “Come, claim your books and turn to page five.”

John grimaced, bracing himself. This was it. The moment the murmurings and stares began. He could feel it. Standing up with the rest of his classmates, John walked to Raja's desk and grabbed his copy of the work book. He saw the exact moment Raja's eyes landed on his leg. The man pursued his lips—clamping down on his own curiosity, John was sure—and he cleared his throat. “Class, we have a new student.” He looked down in his planner and nodded. “John Silver, is it?”

“Yes, ah—sir.” He said, staring at the man with wide eyes. He hunched his shoulders inwards and placed more weight on his good leg, really putting on a show for the man. He didn't know Raja from a hole in the ground, but Silver knew people. He understood them. He knew how to play them. And from what Muldoon had told him on their way to class, he had a pretty good idea about how, exactly, to play Raja. The honorific—playing to the man's ego—the slight hesitation—playing to the protective instincts every teacher had—the shy, nervous body language—it was all too easy.

Raja's gaze softened and he nodded towards John's seat, “Welcome to Nassau,” he said, and that was that. To John, that bridge was looking ever so lovely, off in the distance.

After that the class went by quickly. Since it was just the very first day of school not even Raja could get away with making the students do anything too mentally strenuous and before John knew it, he and Muldoon were on their way to their second class. “I've got Gym next,” he told John as they left Raja's class. “But we've got lunch together. Find me then, yeah?”

Something within John uncoiled with Muldoon's invitation. He'd spent plenty of lunches by himself before—it was old hat to him by now—but all the same, having someone to sit with would make these last few high school days much more bearable. “Yeah, sounds good man.” And with a final nod from the two high school boys, they went their separate ways down the hallway.

Calculus was next. John liked Calculus well enough. He wasn't as good at it as he was at Spanish, but it was a close thing. He could coast easily in the class, which he soon realized he'd have to bank on considering the teacher, a long winded bore of a man, made John's eyes droop faster than NyQuil. Next was a class taught by a woman with a fake beauty mark on her cheek and the scent of mothballs covered with some perfume surrounding her. The class was interesting, though, and they got to handle castes of bones. Their first quiz was in a week, though, and would count for thirty percent of their grade which was not something John looked forward to. Then was Economics. It was taught by a shrewd man named Guthrie whose daughter was apparently in John's class. Neither of them looked very happy about it. All Guthrie did was hand out their syllabus and explain the rules of his class room. Then situated himself behind his desk and began to read a book, his class all but forgotten. Eleanor, his daughter, scoffed at his behavior, gathered her things, and left the class room with no hesitation or fear. John marveled after her, but didn't follow. He already had enough people whispering about him—they weren't very quiet whispers—John didn't need to feed the fire.

By the time he'd gotten to the cafeteria, John felt blessed. Like he'd dodged a million bullets. He figured he'd make it until fourth period before someone asked him about his leg, or about his past. He knew he could dodge most of the teacher's inquiries either by charm, beguile, or their apathy, but Guthrie's blasé attitude took the cake, and so far most of his peers had been too shy to even talk to him. He knew his luck wouldn't hold out, but he'd savor every moment it did. As soon as he entered the cafeteria, lunch in hand, he spotted Muldoon sitting at a table with three other boys over by the windows. When he was only a few paces away, the bald headed teen looked up and smiled, waving him over. “Silver!” He waited for John to sit down and then introduced him to the table, “Silver, this is Joji,” he pointed to an an Asian boy with dark eyes and long, straight hair. “Billy,” he pointed to what John could only describe as a giant with puppy dog eyes, “Most call him Bones, but your choice,” Muldoon added with a grin. Billy rolled his eyes and a flush overcame his cheeks. “And Dufresne,” he pointed lastly to a boy with curly locks and the thickest glasses John had ever seen.

“Hey,” John nodded in greeting.

“Hey, what's up with your—ouch! The fuck, Billy?” Dufresne growled, rubbing his ribs.

Billy blinked at him owlishly, looking completely innocent. “Sorry, man,” he said, eyes wide. “Did I hit you?”

“Yeah!” Dufresne yelped, an angry flush settling over his cheeks and ears. “Lumberjack,” he muttered, returning to his meal and completely forgetting his unfinished question. John locked gazes with Billy and the larger man's lips quirked into a smile for a just a moment before he turned back to Muldoon.

“Did you hear Vane and Flint got into a fight already?” Billy asked around a mouthful of chips.

“What?” Muldoon asked, incredulous. “Already?” He looked at Joji who confirmed it with a nod. “Christ, we're not even done with the first day yet!”

“Any idea what it was about?” Dufresne asked.

“Eleanor, probably,” Muldoon speculated.

“Eleanor Guthrie?” John clarified, his brows raising high up on his forehead.

“Yeah,” Billy nodded, “you meet her yet?”

John shook his head, “Not really. We have Econ together—her dad's the teacher, I guess?” Again, Joji nodded. “She bailed early. Just up and left. It was weird.”

Muldoon nodded with his eyes closed, looking like some sage. “Yeah, well, she hates her dad so that's not very surprising.”

John wanted to ask why the blonde girl hated her father, but asking questions could open himself up for questions. He didn't want that. And besides, he figured he learned the reason why soon enough.

“I don't think it was over Eleanor,” Billy said thoughtfully. “If it were Vane and Max, then maybe . . . but not Flint and Vane.”

“Whatever it was, it was probably mind numbingly stupid,” Dufresne said, and the three other men nodded in agreement. John couldn't help but wonder who these men—Flint and Vane—were. They sounded exciting, interesting, and if they were feeding the rumor mill, thus taking attention away from John himself, then he was all for them.

Never one to pass up an opportunity, John chimed in with a, “I believe I heard someone say it was over some money.” John had, in fact, heard no such thing, but he knew money was always somehow involved one way or another.

“Could be,” Billy nodded, “I think there was some betting happening over the summer.”

“Yeah! I heard Vane lost big!” Dufresne added, and John knew the boy had heard nothing by the slight hitch in his breath before he spoke, but he definitely wasn't going to call him on it. “Like, over five hundred dollars, big.”

“What?” Muldoon's eyes were the size of saucers, and then he gasped, “Oh shit, here comes Flint now.”

Joji continued eating as he'd been doing this entire time, but Dufresne slouched in his seat, trying to disappear, Muldoon averted his gaze out the window, and Billy shoved half his sandwich in his mouth. Silver, curiosity piqued, glanced over his shoulder to see what this Flint character looked like. Mean, that was the first thought that came to John's mind after he laid eyes on the boy walking his way. He figured 'Flint' must have been nickname—since no one here seemed to go by their actual names—because there was no way someone with that red of hair was actually named Flint. He accidentally caught the boy's eye—so green, John thought he was looking into a forest—and all of a sudden John felt as if he were falling. His heart raced in his chest, working it's way up into his throat, and his mouth dried up faster than a California drought. With every ounce of his will power, John looked away from the red headed boy and tried to regain control over his senses.

Flint scowled and sneered at anyone that got too close to him before settling into an empty table and eating his own lunch in solitude. It looked like he preferred it that way, too. “Oh yeah,” Muldoon said, more to himself than anything else, “Thomas and Miranda graduated last year, didn't they?”

“Yeah,” Billy said, his face blotchy and his eyes full of tears from shoving his sandwich down his esophagus. “They're both at Whitehall University, I think. Right?” He looked to Joji. Joji nodded.

“He has other friends though,” Dufresne said sullenly, scowling down at his soup. “He's just being stubborn.”

“Flint? Stubborn?” Billy blinked, faux innocence returning, “You don't say.”

“He doesn't look like he's been in a fight,” John found himself saying. It was true, though. Flint's face looked normal—no cuts or bruises or swelling.

“Vane tends to fight . . .dirty,” Dufresne said delicately.

“He hits below the belt,” Muldoon clarified. Joji hummed in agreement. “On the other hand, though, Flint definitely doesn't—Vane's face is probably all sorts of messed up.”

John hummed, then stood up to throw away his trash. When he returned to the table, he realized his mistake. He should have waited until they were all leaving to do that, but now, having done it alone, he placed himself in a vulnerable position. He'd left the pack, and now, thank to his leg, there was a target on his back. He could see it in Dufresne's beady little eyes. His interest was renewed, having seen the prosthetic again. In sight, in mind, or something like that. And this time, Billy was to busy drinking his water to stop the question that came rushing out of the curly haired boy's mouth, “So how'd you lose it? You're leg?”

Billy snorted, water coming out of his nose. Joji closed his eyes, as if he were praying for patience. And Muldoon rolled his eyes, while hissing, “Christ, Dufresne!”

John knew the question was coming, though. He'd known it all day. He always knew, really. He just didn't know where the question would come from. So without even having to think about it, an easy smile—one crafted from years and years of practice—slipped across his lips, and with a slight shrug, John answered, as easily as breathing, “Car accident.”

And it was a lie.

 

 


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flint hates liars, and John is the biggest to ever open his mouth.

James McGraw normally wasn't the type to sit around and listen to gossip. He didn't care who was dating who, who cheated on who, who slept with who, or any of that sort. It wasn't any of his business. Even back in his sophomore year, when he first started dating Thomas and Miranda and the rumor mill had focused on him and his life, he hadn't batted an eye. So at first, when the new kid had arrived, and that same rumor mill had started up again, James hadn't cared a lick. No, he was more interested with keeping his head down, avoiding Vane, and getting accepted into Whitehall University. He didn't have time for gossip. Nor did he have the patience for it. He knew he had a nasty temper, it flared up and got him in trouble more times than he could count, and now—especially now, with Miranda and Thomas no longer able to help keep his rage in check—he needed to keep his head clear and his nose clean. Just a few more months until graduation. He could make it.

At least, he thought he could make it—until a little shit named John Silver walked into his life. James didn't care about the rumors, really, he didn't, but this— _this shit_. First, the rumors said he lost his leg in a car accident, then they said he lost it in a boating accident, then it was to a shark, no, a gator, then a hippo—James had even heard one say he lost it due to some freak accident with a chicken. Now, _normally_ , James would roll his eyes and shrug it all off, because he just really didn't care. Rumors were rumors, and at first he just assumed people were making all this up because they were too afraid to actually ask the kid how he lost a limb.

And then one day, he heard it, straight from the horses mouth, “Born without it, actually,” the little shit had said with a shrug. Silver sat across the room from him, surrounded, as he always seemed to be, by a group of teens hanging on to his every word with rapt attention. Flint had tried to ignore him, but even on the other side of Hennessey's classroom Flint could hear every word as clearly as if he were sitting next to the curly haired student. “Birth defect of some sort.”

Flint thought that'd be the end of it. He thought that birth defect story would circulate the school for a week at most and then die off, but then, not even a week later, another rumor sprung forth, “You talk to the new kid yet?” Anne asked him as she unceremoniously sat herself down at his table in the cafeteria. Closing his eyes and releasing a slow, calming breath—James was fine with Anne, really, he was . . . it was Jack he could barely handle. And wherever Anne was, Jack wasn't too far behind—before putting his sandwich down to give her his attention.

“No, I haven't,” though he'd heard the new kid talk plenty of times. A loud thunk sounded behind him and the red headed man barely held back a groan as he looked over his shoulder to find Jack Rackham sitting to his left. “Jack,” he nodded in greeting.

“Yes, hello Flint,” the dark haired boy with strange sideburns said, squinting as he overlooked the cafeteria. “Strange man, that Silver. I don't quite understand what he's playing at.”

“I told ya,” Anne sneered from behind a veil of her red hair. “He's a compulsive liar, innit he?”

“But why?” Jack asked, his brows furrowing. “What's his reasoning?”

“Fuck you not getting about the compulsive part?” Anne glared at him, “There ain't no reasoning behind it.”

“What's this all about?” James asked, not completely following the couple's conversation.

“John Silver!” Jack hissed while slamming his fists on the table top. “He continuously lies! Tell me, do you know how he lost his leg?”

“What does it matter how he lost his leg?” James asked, frowning down at his food. “Why do you care?”

Jack looked at him like he'd grown two extra heads, “I care because stories are my life, Flint. I didn't become the editor in chief by sitting on my thumbs when stories came my way.” James sighed, knowing Jack was on a roll now. “It's a matter of the truth—I simply need to know it. And this Silver fellow is giving me the run around, isn't he Anne?” Anne grunted, “Right.” Jack nodded. “Everyone in this school wants to know his secret, they want to know why he's keeping it a secret—and I'm going to be the one to give it to them.”

“Is that so?” James said calmly, “What is I said I knew how he lost his leg?”

“You do?” Jack's right brow rose with interest. Then he exchanged glances with Anne and he pursued his lips. “Well, what is it, oh knowledgeable one?”

“Birth defect,” he answered, reaching for his sandwich again and assuming this conversation was over.

Just as he was about to take a bite, Anne snorted, “Where the fuck you hear that?”

“From him.”

Anne grinned, sharper than any knife, and barked out a laugh, “Yeah? Well I heard, _from him_ , that he lost it in a rock climbing accident.”

“What? When?”

“Two bloody minutes ago,” she barred her teeth at him, though James knew her anger wasn't directed at him. James's gaze sought out Silver. He found the curly haired man where he always was at lunch, sitting with Muldoon and Billy Bones and the rest of their lot.

“Every time someone asks him, he changes the answer. For all we know, he told us the truth, but we can't confirm it. Furthermore—” But James had stopped listening to Rackham. He could feel his body temperature rising, his chest tightening, his gaze narrowing. His anger was like a noose, tightening its hold around his neck. He hated liars. They were the scourge of the Earth and, in Flint's opinion, the reason for all evil in the world. If James were in a sounder frame of mind, he would probably admit that was a bit of an exaggeration, but he wasn't, so he wouldn't. He stared Silver down, glaring cannons at him. Silver was the source of his own gossip? He was the reason Flint had been hearing nothing but ridiculous story after ridiculous story? It didn't make sense. Silver's blue eyes broke away from Dufresne's and caught his green ones. He quirked a dark brow, and James's upper lip curled back in a snarl. Usually, when faced with such animosity, people averted their eyes or flinched back. This _little shit_ , though. This _little shit_ didn't do either of those things. No, this little shit threw his head back and _laughed_.

“I'm going to fucking kill him,” he growled, cutting Jack off mid sentence. “That little shit. I'll kill him.”

“Right, well . . .” Jack's dark eyes flickered between James and Silver before he looked to Anne, “come along, darling, we mustn't out stay out welcome, hmm?”

“Yeah, wanna see Max before class starts up, anyway,” Anne said, then bumped her shoulder into James's, “Don't do nothing stupid, yeah? Think of Whitehall.”

James's face darkened. Whitehall. Right. The light at the end of the dark tunnel that was high school. Just a few more months. Just a few more months and he'd be free of this place. He just had to keep his nose clean . . . and his temper in check. That was easier said than done, especially when the little shit had the audacity to _wink_ at him.

Twisting back around, James began shoveling the remainder of his sandwich into his mouth. Once he finished scarfing down his lunch, he pushed his body out of his seat—with a bit more force than absolutely necessary—and stomped out of the cafeteria towards his locker. He needed to cool off, and that wasn't going to happen with John fucking Silver sitting behind him, burning holes into his back. He had three more periods to get through today. Just three more and he could go home and call Thomas and forget everything that had happened today. Maybe he'd even drive up to Whitehall's campus and surprise Miranda and Thomas. Maybe even have dinner. Maybe even spend the night—it was Friday, after all. Tension began to slowly bleed from his shoulders at the thought. He just needed some time with Thomas and Miranda. That'd set him straight.

He had Physics after lunch. They had a lab project due at the end of the period, and he was paired with Joji—thank Christ. He didn't think he'd be able to take any mindless chatter in his current state, and the lab work kept his mind busy and the time moving. Soon enough, the bell was ringing and he and Joji were turning in their work. Next was Econ with Guthrie. He hated this class, but it'd look good to the colleges he'd applied to. It was terribly boring, though. Guthrie wasn't the best teacher, nor was he the most engaging. Sometimes James found himself wishing he shared the class with Eleanor, if only for the entertainment factor her presence always brought. Eventually, though, that class ended, too, and then there was one. His final class with Hennessey. Thankfully English was his favorite subject, and Hennessey was his favorite teacher. Unfortunately, he shared the class with Silver.

Silver was already in his seat when James entered the classroom, and he could feel the invisible noose around his neck begin to tighten again. He tried to shrug off the compulsion building within the bowls of his stomach to lash out and punch the man across the jaw. Whitehall, he thought, over and over again. Whitehall, Whitehall, Whitehall. He released a shaky breath. He could do this. Taking his seat, he pulled out his notebook and his copy of the current book they were reading— _The Canterbury Tales_ —and stared steadfast ahead at the chalkboard before him. He could sense Silver's gaze burning into the side of his face. It made his skin itch and the muscles near his eyes twitch, but he'd ignore him. He couldn't afford not to.

Hennessey took that moment to walk in, closing the classroom door behind him. “Afternoon, class,” he greeted, pulling down the projector screen and then heading over to his desk. He grabbed a small remote, turning the projector on, and then began logging into his computer. “I hope everyone remembered to bring their books to class today. You'll be needing them.” A few students looked around in a panic, but for the most part everyone seemed prepared for whatever Hennessey had planned. “I'm assigning a group project due on Monday.” He waited for several groans to finish their course. James held his back, but just barely. There went his plans with Thomas and Miranda. “Groups of two—one of three. I've already chosen your partners so stop looking around frantically, Mr. Dooley. You and your partner, or partners, will choose a story from _The Canterbury Tales_ and give a fifteen to twenty minute report on it on Monday—or, if we run short on time, Tuesday. You'll find the restrictions and requirements on the projector, so be sure to take notice, please.” James read the words on the screen, while most of his class mates began writing the instructions into their notebooks. “Don't forget to email me your chosen story by midnight tonight.

“Now, as for partners, keep an ear out for your name.” Hennessey began listing pairs off one by one. Some people were thrilled with their partner. Idelle and Featherstone—always a suitable pair. Woodes and Edward Low—that was a match made in hell. Ben and Billy—that'd be interesting. Eme and Berringer—Christ, Hennessey was a sadist for making that match. “James McGraw,” Hennessey said, looking down and reading from his notes. James's focus honed in on the older man as he read of his partner, “John Silver.” Blood drained from James's face. His mind turned fuzzy. The noose tightened, cutting off his air way. This couldn't be happening. This couldn't be happening. James wanted to pinch himself to test the theory out, but some last remnant of common sense told him he wasn't dreaming. This was all really happening. He wanted to scream, he wanted to rage, he wanted to break Hennessey's face against his desk or putting him in this position. He wanted Miranda. He needed Thomas. But he couldn't have any of those things, and he knew it. So instead, he ran a hand down his face and sighed.

He was screwed.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wasn't in love with this chapter, but it got the job done. Tbh it was really just to help me push through writer's block a bit. I tried writing this and two other things and it literally took me all day just to get 2000 words out. Talk about yikes. Anyway, hope you enjoyed.

**Author's Note:**

> I really like this idea and it felt very good writing it, so please let me know what you thought about this chapter! Just so you know, I might be slow updating this just because I really want to do it justice and I tend to rush when I give myself deadlines which I feel ends up cheapening my work.


End file.
